


drowning you from within

by Venetia5



Series: crack your rib cage open, peel back the bones [2]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Choking, Dark Jughead Jones, M/M, Possible Dub-Con, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, so much darker than my usual stuff, this is really dark guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 22:17:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venetia5/pseuds/Venetia5
Summary: You wonder why, even after all these months, he's still stuck in your head, lodged in there like a splinter festering in the wound it's caused. You can't pry him free, no matter how deep you dig to remove him, no matter the pain when you try.You’re scared at the darkness that seems to have seeped into your soul, and you wonder which one of them poisoned you, infected you, wonder if you’ll ever be the same boy you were before that Sweetwater summer.You doubt it.Sequel to 'constellations across your ribs, bruises on your lips'





	drowning you from within

**Author's Note:**

> The follow up that people asked me for after my [first piece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10723056) in this much darker imagining of Riverdale. The characters are much darker, and probably not completely in character as such, so I apologise for that. I also apologise that this has taken me a year to complete, but real life decided to intrude.
> 
> There is dub-con throughout this fic, just as there was in my first fic, so I apologise if that's makes anyone feel uncomfortable, and if you do feel uncomfortable with dubious consent, I encourage you to close this tab and read something else. 
> 
> This is most definitely not a happy story.

You thought that it would end.

 

You'd never deluded yourself into thinking that the world would suddenly right itself, tip back onto its axis and continue to spin as it had before _he_ had knocked it off course.

 

But you'd never imagined that you would still wake in the middle of the night to the phantom feeling of lips burning your skin, leaving a trail of bruises across your body, marking the path he'd taken, telling the story of your ruination beneath his hands.

 

You wake up, sleep slowly slipping from your body like a blanket that had been smothering you. You're freezing, despite the sweltering heat of summer in the attic of your house, and covered in sweat, little droplets trickling down your back, following that phantom trail.

 

You wonder why, even after all these months, he's still stuck in your head, lodged in there like a splinter festering in the wound it's caused. You can't pry him free, no matter how deep you dig to remove him, no matter the pain when you try.

 

You're beginning to think you'll never get rid of him.

 

* * *

 

You're sitting in the garage with a dark-haired boy in a beanie and battered jacket, laptop perched on his knee, TV turned down low, background noise, your head resting in his lap, his free hand stroking through your hair, his soft, nimble fingers carding through it in the way he knows you like.

 

_Like father, like son._

The thought almost makes you want to throw up, but you can’t even convince yourself to move, the numbness that had spread through your body, deep into your bones, preventing you from moving. You’re almost past caring, caring about anything, like the numbness had begun to infect your mind, stopping you from feeling anything at all.

 

Your therapist says it’s simply coming to terms with the idea that you’ve been taken advantage of by not one, but two adults. That everything that was done _to you_ was beyond your control, and that your mind is trying to both process this and protect you from it.

 

You think that’s bullshit.

 

You know that it was true in the case of _~~Grundy~~ Gibson,_ but you don’t think it was like that with _him_.

 

(You also know that _~~Grundy~~ Gibson _ is dead, but you can’t tell anyone this. You’re not even meant to know. You overheard him on the phone, one of those rare times when he was awake and you were half-asleep, bruised and sore and tired down to your bones. You heard him as he said her name, as he told the disembodied voice on the other end of the phone _exactly_ what was going to happen to her. Some days you think you regret telling him. Other days you know you don’t. You wonder if that makes you a bad person.)

 

You feel the dark-haired boy’s fingers tighten in your hair, strands beginning to tug at your scalp, and you wonder, distantly, in that vague, floating way of not particularly caring but still feeling a spark of curiosity, what it is he’s reading on his laptop.

 

He tugs again, scalp stinging this time from the force, and you only just manage not to moan. You look up at him through your lashes, see his lips part slightly as he turns his attention towards you, see the way his eyes darken.

 

_Like father, like son._

 

You think that you should feel disgusted for the thought.

 

You can’t bring yourself to feel anything.

 

He tilts the screen down so that you can see it.

 

It’s a newspaper article, published this morning by Betty’s mother, the headline mentioning something about ‘The Serpent Menace’. You’re not interested in what vitriol she’s spouting now, your eyes instead drawn to the picture that dominates the page.

 

It’s a picture of _him_ , leather jacket slung over his shoulders, black circles under his eyes, nose slightly crooked and swollen, cuts and bruises still littering his face from where your father beat him. You wonder if they still hurt. A small, dark part of you that lurks somewhere deep within you cruelly hopes they do.

 

You find yourself wondering what would happen if you pressed your finger into the bruise beneath his eye, wonder if he’d hiss and squirm the way you did when he used to do it to you, when he dug his fingers into the bruises he’d left on your hips the night before, lapping up your moans and screams. 

 

You’re scared at the darkness that seems to have seeped into your soul, and you wonder which one of them poisoned you, infected you, wonder if you’ll ever be the same boy you were before that Sweetwater summer.

 

You doubt it.

 

The dark-haired boy above you shifts, sets down his laptop on the table, turns his entire attention toward you, hand still resting in your hair. You’re so desperate for affection, for _attention_ , you take whatever he’ll give you, whether it’s venomous words hissed in your ear about how disgusting you are, or gentle caresses across your cheek. You take it all, devour it, never dare ask for more lest he think that you’re greedy and refuse. You ~~want~~ _need it_ , need it so much that sometimes you think you’ll go mad ( _even though you know you already have gone mad_ ).

 

He traces his finger across your brow, strokes his thumb across your cheekbone, and you daren’t even breathe for fear of breaking this moment. You want to reach up, want to press your mouth against his, want to feel how he would hold you, how bruising his grip would be compared to –

 

Your father walks in. You don’t hear his footsteps at first, too caught up, too focused on the dark-haired boy, only realise that he’s there when the dark-haired boy’s eyes shift upwards, hand still resting on your cheek.

 

You look over, see him standing there, that tired and weary look you’ve come to associate with your father ever-present on his face, along with a yellowing bruise spreading across his cheek beneath his eye. You wonder if it’s the first time he’s been punched, but you doubt it. After all, your father was friends with _him_ when he was younger, young, the same age as you and the dark-haired boy. A thought flits across your mind, a vision of your father, young, lying on the sofa, head in the lap of his own dark-haired boy.

 

It would explain so much.

 

“Jug, do you mind if I talk to Archie for a moment?” You can hear the weariness in his tone, realise he’s so much more tired than his body shows, that it’s not just physical tiredness that’s weighing him down.

 

The dark-haired boy slides off the sofa, ever so careful with you, laying you down gently, and you wonder if you’ve ever been shown this much kindness by anyone except your father. You don’t think you have, not even by the sweet girl next door.

 

Your father sits beside you, doesn’t speak for a few minutes, simply lets the silence settle around you.

 

“The Jones boys have always attracted us to them,” your father says, and you know that you were right. It isn’t hard to see why. It’s so easy to imagine your father being drawn in by _him_ , can tell that he must have been attractive when he was younger, can see why your father would be drawn to him like a moth to a flame. “They’ve always attracted trouble too. And caused _us_ trouble.”

 

You remember reading somewhere that diseases that your parents have had can stay in their DNA, can alter it, can end up being passed down to their children. You wonder if this particular affliction, your attraction to _them_ , is something similar. It would be so easy to think so.

 

“I see the way Jug looks at you, Archie.” He pauses, like he’s trying to find the right words, but you know he’s haunted by his memories, same as you. “FP looked at me like that, once. I looked at him the way you look at Jug. I felt like I was starving until FP showed me attention.”

 

He breaks off, and you can see the sadness, the hurt, that haunts his eyes. You wonder what happened, what _he_ did, wonder if it was simply the times _he_ stole from your father, that caused him to feel the way he does, if there was something more to it.

 

“He used it, Archie, used my… blind devotion, to get me to do things I never would have done. I did – I did things that I can’t take back, no matter how much I want to. And it was all for him, because he made me feel special.”

 

You don’t ask him what he did, can only guess at what he did, what he was willing to do all because _he_ asked him to do it. You don’t ask your father if he loved _him_. You already know the answer.

 

“Be careful, Archie. Please. I don’t want to lose my son.” The last part is a whisper, a plea, not meant for your ears, but for the universe. He can see history repeating itself all over again, and it scares him. It scares you too.

 

He leaves, footfalls shuffling and unsteady, as though the weight hanging above him is going to come crashing down and pull him down with it. You want to tell him that you won’t make the same mistakes, but you know you already have.

 

You can see Jughead lingering by the door as your father passes him, wonder if he ever left at all, if he was listening, if he already knew about your father and his.

 

He probably did.

 

You still can’t find it in you to care.

 

* * *

 

“Archie, I’m worried about how dependent you seem to have become on your friend…Jughead, is it?”

 

You’re sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair in a too-white room, the smell of antiseptic and sugary pastries so thick in the air that you want to gag. You shift and shuffle, trying to get more comfortable, but it’s impossible, not just because of the chair.

 

“Archie?”

 

You’ve heard the same thing three times already today.

 

You’re starting to get sick of everyone questioning you.

 

“He’s my best friend,” is the response you finally settle on. The woman smiles thinly, pale lips pressed in a firm line. You’re not sure it actually is a smile. A grimace might be more accurate. You don’t care. You don’t like what she’s trying to imply, and that seems like such a Jughead thing to think. You know that _before_ , you probably wouldn’t have realised what she’s trying to say. You do now, though, and you want her to stop judging you, judging Jughead, judging everything you do.

 

Betty had been the one who approached you first, Kevin in tow, who asked you in that gentle way of hers what had happened, could tell that something had changed, but didn’t know what, could see that something had changed between you and Jughead.

 

You’d told her it was nothing, and the lie had festered on your tongue, burning a hole in your throat until you could barely speak to her. You’d bolted as soon as the bell had rung, had arrived at your class early for once, and sat in the far corner, trying to calm yourself down.

 

Veronica had cornered you at lunch. You knew that Betty had talked to her; B and V, thick as thieves, attached at the hip. You should have known that she would go to Veronica, sweet Betty who had always worried about you, but it had still been a surprise when Veronica had pulled you aside and demanded to know what happened.

 

You’d so desperately wanted to tell her nothing happened, that it was nothing to do with her, that she should leave it alone. You knew that she would have seen through it though, know that she would have carried on until she got an answer. It was only when she asked if Jughead _did_ something to you that you told her to stop, to leave it. You’d missed lunch, choosing instead to hide in the locker rooms, not daring to seek Jughead out lest one of the others find you.

 

Reggie had been the final one to bring it up, to notice that your head wasn’t focused, that you were miles away, on a ratty old sofa in a dilapidated trailer. He’d pushed you, shoved you, demanded to know what you were so focused on. He’d struck a nerve when he’d mentioned Jughead, had seen it, had seen something in your eyes, _desperation panic terror_ , that made him back off, just a little, had told you to go home until you were focused again.

 

“Archie, this level of dependence isn’t healthy for you. Do you not think that you’re substituting Jughead for his father, the way you substituted FP for Miss Grundy?”

 

You flinch at the mention of her name, at what this woman is trying to suggest. It eats away at you, this nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, the possibility that she might be right. It burns away at your stomach like acid.

 

Grundy. FP. Jughead.

 

You only just make it to the bin in time.

 

* * *

 

Jughead is lying on your bed when you finally drag yourself home from the therapist’s office. He’s stretched out like some sleek, idle house cat, but the way he opens one eye lazily, not even bothering to move as he hears you enter, reminds you of a different type of cat entirely.

 

You’re all too familiar with feeling like the prey being watched by the predator.

 

You drop your bag by the door, notice how he tracks your movement across the room, despite his pretence of sleep. You drop down onto the bed next to him, relishing in how he angles his body towards you, the way his nimble fingers reach out and clasp your shoulder, draw circles and swirls across your neckline where your skin is exposed by the low neck of your t-shirt.

 

He smiles at you, something small and soft, and it feels wonderful. It all feels so wonderful, the smiles, his fingers on your collarbone, softly gliding over the bones, his other hand coming to rest of your waist, playing with the hem of your t-shirt.

 

He trails his fingers upwards, dancing across your ribs, and you squirm, biting your lip to hold back your laughter.

 

You can’t hold back your gasp when he digs his fingers in, short nails biting into your skin, leaving a pattern of crescent moons across your ribs. You try to squirm out of reach, try to get him to stop, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know what he’s doing to you.

 

“Jug,” you gasp, and it’s so close to a moan, and you wonder how he can’t realise, how he doesn’t see what he’s doing to you, this brilliant boy who figures everything out, all your darkest secrets and fears unearthed by those nimble fingers.

 

It’s only when he bites your lower lip, worrying it, splitting it open until blood beads on the surface, that you realise he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to you.

 

_Like father, like son._

 

The thought doesn’t disgust you, repel you, numb you.

 

It _excites_ you.

 

You think it might be truer than you realise, that there’s the same darkness in the son that festers in the father, that had always threatened to devour you whole, to drag you with him into the depths of darkness.

 

Jughead’s hands squeeze your ribs, the wrong side of painful, and this time you can’t disguise the moan that slips from your lips. You look up at him, into those deep eyes. There’s a little bit of darkness, a little bit of hunger, and it sends a thrill of anticipation down your spine.

 

His hands slide down to your hips, deft fingers slithering their way across the jutting bones of your hips, teasing and tracing incomprehensible patterns across the skin there. He grabs your hips tightly, and you can imagine how the small, circular bruises will look there in the morning, dark purple contrasting against your pale skin. He pulls you towards him, hands sure and steady, presses his lips against yours, tongue sliding across the seam of your lips, gently at first, and then demanding entrance when you don’t immediately yield.

 

His slides his leg forwards, slotting between your thighs, swallows your gasp when he moves against you, the friction almost unbearable, hands still curled around your ribs, and _it’s been so long, too long, since anyone held you this way._

 

You moan into his mouth as his hands slide further down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your jeans, can’t contain your gasp when one hand slides around the front, the other slipping into your back pocket to hold you in place.

 

You hear a soft _plink_ as he flicks open the button of your jeans, the sound of the zipper sliding down, the rustle of fabric as he pulls them down your legs, hear your own moan as his hand, _so warm_ , slips beneath your boxers, taking you in his hand, and it feels like the fire that’s scorching through your veins is going to burn you alive.

 

You tip your head back, exposing your neck, and his head dips down, soft hair brushing your chin, as he bites bruises onto the alabaster expanse of your throat.

 

His hand begins to move, and the moan that slips past your lips is positively _sinful_ , and you feel his smirk against your skin, before his tongue dips into the hollow of your collarbone.

 

That flames inside you begins to build, coiling low in your gut, and your breath begins to come in pants, you can’t get enough air, and you need him to _stop, stop, just for a moment, just until you can breathe again_.

 

It washes over you like a tidal wave, and a for a moment you can’t see anything, can’t hear anything, only the crashing sound of the wave as it pulls you under.

 

* * *

 

You notice the way he’s staring at you, when you finally come to and look over at him; you see the way his dark eyes are trained on you, as though he’s dissecting you beneath his gaze.

 

You think that the intensity of his gaze should frighten you; the way he tilts his head, as though he’s studying a complex puzzle, should unnerve you.

 

It doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

It’s after that that things begin to deteriorate.

 

It’s such a slow decay that you barely notice it happening, the rot that begins to creep in, to infect everything in your life.

 

It starts with three small, inconsequential words (that really aren’t that inconsequential, but they seemed so at the time).

 

“Stay with me,” are the breathless words whispered across your throat, teeth following the trail his breath leaves.

 

And you reply automatically, not even thinking about what your words could possibly mean.

 

“Always.”

 

You can feel his grin against your throat, can picture the upturned corners of his mouth, his white teeth and soft, pink lips stained with red, but when he looks up at you through his lashes, there’s no soft smile. There’s something like hunger in eyes, but not quite – it’s something more than that. Hunger can be satisfied, and you’re not sure that whatever’s lurking in Jughead’s eyes could ever be fulfilled.

 

It’s then that you feel his hands sliding up your body from their resting place on your hips. They move slowly, slithering upwards, inch by inch, until they rest at the base of your throat. You swallow, see the way his eyes track the movement of your throat, the way his tongue peeks out, wetting his lips just ever so slightly.

 

This is hunger of a different kind, you’re sure.

 

“So, beautiful,” he breathes, and you wouldn’t have heard it if the room hadn’t been as silent as the grave. His hands move further up, spreading out until they’re wrapped all the way around your throat, thumbs pressed together, resting lightly against your skin.

 

“You’re beautiful, Arch.”

 

He squeezes.

 

You thrash instinctively, trying to dislodge his hands, trying to get him off you, get him to stop, _for the love of God, Jug, please, just stop_ , but you can’t say any of this, can’t say anything, the only noises leaving your mouth are gasps that are cut off when they’re halfway past your lips. His weight is pinning you down, and he’s always been so deceptively slim, that’s it’s so easy to forget the power hidden beneath the baggy clothes and wiry arms.

 

“ _Jug_ ,” you finally manage to gasp, still struggling, though your limbs are beginning to feel heavy, sluggish, and you can barely move them anymore.

He shushes you, pressing butterfly kisses across your cheek, your brow, your eyelids, and the pressure on your throat remains steady, strong, too much to bear.

 

_Oh, God, don’t let me die like this._

 

“Shhh, Arch, calm down. You know I’d never hurt you.”

 

But you’re not sure, not anymore, not after _~~Grundy~~ Gibson, _ not after FP, not after everyone else who’s ever hurt you.

 

_Your mother, who left you._

_Val, who dumped you._

 

_Betty, who said she’d be there and wasn’t._

_Veronica, who took your best friend from you._

_Jughead…_

 

“ _Jug_ ,” you gasp. “ _Stop.”_

 

He doesn’t.

 

“Trust me, Arch.”

 

He presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s the last thing you’re truly aware of, before consciousness slips away from you, like sand through your fingers.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

You weren’t actually sure that it could, but somehow, against all the odds, it gets worse.

 

The bruises on your throat are something you can’t hide, not from your father, not from anyone at school, not B and V, not your therapist.

 

It’s the last one that causes the most trouble, though it’s not the one that troubles you most.

 

“Archie, can you tell me where you got those bruises?”

 

Silence.

 

You know that that’s the only way you’re going to be able to deal with this. It was the only way you’d been able to deal with your father’s worried glances in the morning as he tried to surreptitiously survey the damage Jughead inflicted on your throat. You’re not quite sure how he didn’t throw up at the sight. You had, when you saw the black splotches ringing your throat, like flowers in bloom. Had thrown up again when you felt Jughead’s hands on you, rubbing soothing circles onto the naked expanse of your back, could barely stand his touch.

 

“Archie, I’m worried. You’re doing exactly what I feared you were – substituting Jughead for his father.”

 

You can’t stand her soft, sickly-sweet, _understanding_ tone any longer. She doesn’t _understand._

She has no idea.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

“Archie, you must know that this behaviour isn’t healthy. I think you should stop seeing Jughead –”

 

You don’t hear the rest of her words as you storm out of the office.

 

If only it were that easy.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

“I’m going out to see Betty and Veronica at Pop’s. Do you wanna come?”

 

“Stay with me instead.”

 

You don’t end up seeing Betty and Veronica.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

“I’ve got football practice after school, so I’ll be back later.”

 

You kiss him goodbye, get up to leave, when he grabs your wrist, pulls you back to where he’s lounging on your bed.

 

“Skip it,” he whispers against your lips, biting at them until they’re sore, until you relent. It’s only then that he releases his grip on your wrist. You’re fairly sure there are going to be bruises there later.

 

You don't go to football practice that night.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

“Andrews, if you don’t show up to the next football practice session, you’re off the team.”

 

You hang your head, endure his ire.

 

 _You were such a promising player,_ he says.

 

 _Were._ This is the word you choose to question.

 

 _You still can be, you can stay on the team,_ he promises. _If you continue coming to practice_.

 

“I’ll try harder coach.”

 

You don’t make it to the next practice session.

 

You can see the disappointment in the coach’s eyes as he holds his hand out, watching as you hand over your jersey. You can see the question forming in his eyes, can see what he desperately wants to ask you, and you thank god when the bell rings, giving you the excuse to escape.

 

You don’t bother going to anymore football practices after that.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

“I’m moving back in with my dad,” he whispers to you one night, and you think it must be summer by now, but you’re not sure, you lost track of time somewhere.

 

Almost a year since a red-headed boy went missing one morning at Sweetwater River.

 

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.”

 

You don’t know what to say, can barely think above the sound of blood rushing in your ears, your heart pounding, the edges of your vision becoming blurry.

 

You know by now that this is a panic attack, recognise it from what your therapist described during all those _~~useless~~_ sessions.

 

“You asked me to stay with you.”

 

But you realise, now, that it was always a one-sided promise, that you had promised not to leave him, but he never made the same promise to you.

 

“Your dad doesn’t want me here.”

 

You want to scream, want to shout that it’s not true, that it’s just him, wanting to leave you, the way his father did.

 

You want to beg him not to leave you, not to leave you with this empty feeling inside you that you thought he’d filled, that you can feel opening up again, as his words sink in, deep into your bones.

 

Instead, you lay there, unable to move, watching as though you’re a passenger in your own body, your own mind, as he takes you apart beneath his hands, dissecting you as he’d always wanted to do.

 

You know this will be the last time, know that you should be feeling anger, sadness, heartbreak, fear, something…anything.

You feel numb.

 

* * *

 

It gets worse.

 

You walk around the house as though in a trance, barely reacting to anything. It’s like nothing is real anymore, like you’re in a waking dream, sensations not penetrating this hazy unreality that you’re living in now.

 

You ignore the worried calls and texts from B and V, from Kevin, even one from Reggie.

 

You ignore the concerned glances your father throws your way when you fail to keep your therapist’s appointment for the third week in a row.

 

You hear Vegas whining at you, wondering why you’ve stopped responding to him, but even then, you can’t bring yourself to care.

 

 It doesn’t matter anymore, none of it does.

 

You shut down.

 

* * *

 

“Arch, I need you to talk to me.”

 

You barely hear him. You feel like you’re underwater, everything clear and blurry and unrecognisable all at the same time.

 

“Please, Archie.”

 

You turn to face him, can see the deep lines on his forehead, the blue-black circles beneath his eyes, the chapped, cracked skin on lips. You can’t quite process what any of this means, but somewhere, in some distant corner of your mind, you know that it means something. Something not good.

 

“I know what you’re going through.”

 

This is the truth, you know that. You know that he must have gone through the same thing with _him._

 

You wondered, sometimes, when you were more aware of everything, when the hurt was still fresh, if it was always going to end like this.

 

You feel guilty, too, for making your father relive this, relive what he went through with _him_ , feel guilty for seeing it happen again, with _him,_ with _his son_. You wonder if you were always going to be infected by the darkness that surrounds _them_.

 

You like to pretend that it wasn’t inevitable, because the illusion of choice, of _what ifs_ , is so much better than realising that there was never a way out, that you were trapped. It’s too much to bear.

 

It’s only then, when he holds you in his arms, that you finally let the tears fall, finally release everything that you’ve been holding behind this wall of denial and numbness since you first laid eyes on _him,_ on _them._

 

You wonder if your father had someone to hold him like this, when he realised what _he_ was like, what _he_ had done to him.

 

You hope he did, but, somehow, you doubt it.

 

You stay there, the two of you, both infected by the same darkness that you will never be able to purge from your systems, both damaged irreparably.

 

You feel.

 

* * *

 

It gets better.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope this wasn't too awful to read, or too depressing. As I've said, this a much darker imagining of Riverdale (though, admittedly, at this point in the show, things are starting to become fairly dark as it is),
> 
> For those of you who asked for something with Fred and FP, I am working on a companion piece to this series, set around and between 'constellations' and this piece (tentatively titled 'chaos is in our blood and bones').
> 
> Please leave con-crit in the comments if you wish too, and kudos is love. Thank you for taking the time to read this.


End file.
